...alights on the hand that does not grasp." - John Berry
He was dressed in gray jeans, a pink button-down shirt, and a black driver's cap. Book in hand, he walked up Sixth Street, deftly sidestepping and weaving around dealers, milk crate-sitting OGs, tweaker prostitutes in bright red lipstick (their legs all beat up), art fags, et alia. It was as though everyone were engaged in an intricately choreographed sidewalk dance set to the beat of many thousands of hearts. He passed the green-fronted pawn shop glaring in the reddening sun, and the cool Pacific breeze wafted to him from within the numbing aroma of crack smoke. Look: the golden gleam off the corner, where the yellow, red and green tiles of Cancun Taqueria meet Market Street -- there you will see an angel's hands pressed together for a moment. Listen, listen, listen to the 80s Top 40 hits, the patter of Skid Row patois, the crunch of the car wheels turning behind you. These are the prayers of a city continuously spoken past the ear of the King of the World.